A COURT MARRIAGE.
The great gallery of the Louvre is just completed. It is on the first
floor, and approached through a circular hall with a fine mosaic floor;
it has painted walls and a vaulted ceiling. The gallery is lighted by
twelve lofty windows looking towards the quays and the river, which
glitters without in the morning sun. Every inch of this sumptuous
apartment is painted and laden with gilding; the glittering ceiling
rests upon a cornice, where Henry’s initials are blended with those of
the dead Gabrielle. A crowd of lords-in-waiting and courtiers walk up
and down, loll upon settees, or gather in groups within the deep
embrasures of the windows, to discuss in low tones the many scandals of
the day, as they await his Majesty’s lover. Presently Maréchal
Bassompierre enters. Bassompierre, the friend and confidant of Henry, as
great a libertine as his master, who has left behind him a minute
chronicle of his life, is a tall, burly man; his face is bronzed by the
long campaigns against the League, and his bearing as he moves up and
down, his sword clanging upon the polished floor, has more of the
swagger of the camp than the refinement of the Court. He wears the
uniform of the Musketeers who guard the person of the King, and on his
broad breast is the ribbon of the Order of the “Saint-Esprit.” He is
joined by the Duc de Roquelaure. Now Roquelaure is an effeminate-looking
man, a gossip and a dandy, the retailer of the latest scandal, the
block upon which the newest fashions are tried. He wears a doublet of
rose-coloured Florence satin quilted with silk, stiff with embroidery
and sown with seed-pearls. The sleeves are slashed with cloth of silver;
a golden chain, with a huge medallion set in diamonds, hangs round his
neck. Placed jauntily over his ear is a velvet cap with a jewelled clasp
and white ostrich plume. Broad golden lace borders his hose, and
high-heeled Cordovan boots--for he desires to appear tall--of amber
leather, with huge golden spurs, complete his attire. Being a man of low
stature--a pigmy beside the Marshal--as the sun streams upon him from
the broad window-panes, he looks like a gaudy human butterfly.
“Well, Bassompierre,” says the Duke eagerly, standing on the points of
his toes, “is it true that your marriage with the incomparable Charlotte
de Montmorenci is broken off?”
Bassompierre bows his head in silence, and a sorrowful look passes over
his jovial face.
“_Pardieu!_ Marshal, for a rejected lover you seem well and hearty. Are
you going to break your heart, or the Prince of Condé’s head--eh,
Marshal?”
A malicious twinkle gathers in Roquelaure’s eye, for there is a certain
satisfaction to a man of his inches in seeing a giant like Bassompierre
unsuccessful.
“Neither, Duke,” replies Bassompierre drily. “I shall in this matter, as
in all others, submit myself to his Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Mighty well spoken, Marshal; you are a perfect model of our court
virtue. But how can a worshipper of ‘the great Alexander,’ at the court
of ‘Lutetia,’ in the very presence of the divine Millegarde, the superb
Dorinda, and all the attendant knights and ladies, tolerate the affront,
the dishonour of a public rejection?” And Roquelaure takes out an
enamelled snuff-box, taps it, and with a pinch of scented snuff between
fingers covered with rings awaits a reply. “Not but that any gentleman,”
continues he, receiving no answer, “who marries the fair Montmorenci
will have perforce to submit to his Majesty’s pleasure--eh, Marshal, you
understand?” and Roquelaure takes his pinch of snuff and dusts his
perfumed beard.
“I cannot allow the lady to be made a subject for idle gossip, Duke,”
replies Bassompierre, drawing himself up to his full height and eying
the other grimly. “Although I am not to have the honour of being her
husband, her good name is as dear to me as before.”
“But, _morbleu_! who blames the lady?”
“Not I--I never blamed a lady in my life, let her do what she may--it is
my creed of honour.’
“But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal,
the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient
friendship?”
Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply.
“The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri
Quatre,--he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars,
sleeves of carnation satin--(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at
his own--“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have
another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de
Condé--in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received
from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?”
“Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre,
turning away with an offended air.
“Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of
distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to
detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de
Condé gives you great concern----”
Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I
should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a
low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear
Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh
escapes him.
“Never, never,” rejoins Roquelaure, looking round to note who arrives,
“it is an ill-assorted union. You, Bassompierre, would have loved her
well. It was possible she might have reformed your manners. Ha! I have
you there, Marshal. Pardon my joke,” adds he, as he sees a dark scowl
again gathering on the Marshal’s face. “But Condé, the _rustre_, he
hates women--I never saw him address one in his life; a cold, austere
fellow, as solitary as an owl; a miser, and silent too--if he does speak
he is rude and ungracious; and with the temper of a fiend. If he does
right, it is only through obstinacy. I am told he suspects the lady
already, and has set spies to watch her. A pretty match for the fair
Montmorenci truly, who has lived with a sovereign at her feet.”
“Duke,” cries Bassompierre fiercely, secretly writhing under the Duke’s
malicious probing of a heart-wound which still bled, “I have already
observed that any inuendoes touching Mademoiselle de Montmorenci
displease me.”
“Inuendoes! why, Marshal, even Condé confessed the other day that rich
as was the prize, and surpassing the lady, he hesitated to accept ‘one
whom the King’s attention had made so notorious!’ ”
Bassompierre’s eyes flash. He is about to make an angry rejoinder when a
page approaches and summons them to attend his Majesty.
The marriage between Charlotte de Montmorenci and the Prince de Condé
was, as had been anticipated, a failure. Condé, devoured by jealousy,
shut up his wife at Chantilly, or at the still more remote Château of
Muret. The petted beauty, accustomed to the incense of a Court and the
avowed admiration of an infatuated sovereign, scolded and wept, but in
vain. The more bitterly they quarrelled, the more deep and dangerous
became Condé’s enmity to Henry. Disloyalty was the tradition of his
race, rebellious practices with Spain the habit of his house. We have
seen how a Condé was ready to usurp the throne under pretence of a
Regency, during the conflict with the Huguenots at Amboise. His son,
“the great Condé,” is by-and-by to head the standard of revolt, and at
the head of Spanish troops to bring France to the brink of ruin. Avarice
had led him to accept the hand of Charlotte de Montmorenci--avarice and
poverty--and he had counted upon constant espionage and absence from
Court as sufficient precautions. But he was young: he had yet to learn
the wilfulness of his wife and the audacity of the King. As he gradually
discovered that the Princess was neither to be soothed nor coerced, his
rage knew no bounds. Sully, seriously alarmed at the rumours that
reached him respecting the Prince’s language, requested a visit from him
at the Arsenal.
Sully is seated in a sombre closet--looking towards the towers of
Notre-Dame--at a table covered with papers. Condé is tall, thin, and
slightly made. He is singularly ill-favoured, with dark hair and swarthy
skin, a nose quite out of proportion with the rest of his face, and a
sinister expression in his eyes. On entering he cannot conceal his
uneasiness.
“Be seated, monseigneur,” says Sully, scanning him from under his heavy
eyebrows. “I have no time to spare--therefore I must use plain words.
You speak of the King my master in terms that do you little credit. You
are playing the devil, Prince. The King’s patience is well-nigh
exhausted. I am commanded to keep back the payment of the pension you
receive to mark his Majesty’s displeasure. If this has no effect upon
you, other means must be tried.”
While Sully speaks, Condé sits opposite to him unmoved, save that his
dark face hardens, and he fixes his sullen eyes steadfastly upon Sully.
“If I am what you say,” replies he at last doggedly, “if I speak ill of
his Majesty, am I not justified? He is determined to ruin me. He
persecutes me because I choose to keep my wife in the country. It is my
desire to leave France--then I shall no longer give his Majesty
offence.”
“Impossible, monseigneur! As a Prince of the blood your place is at
Court, beside the Sovereign.”
“What! have I not liberty even to visit my own sister, the Princess of
Orange, at Breda, in company with the Princess, my wife? That can be no
affront to his Majesty. Surely, Monsieur de Sully, you cannot advise the
King to refuse so reasonable a request?”
“I shall advise him to refuse it, monseigneur, nevertheless. Persons of
your rank cannot leave the kingdom--the very act is treason.”
Condé casts up his eyes, and his hands--
“Was ever a man so ill used? My personal liberty denied me! My very
allowance stopped!”
“It is said, Prince, that you have plenty of Spanish doubloons at
Chantilly,” returns Sully significantly.
“It is false--tales to ruin me. Ever since my marriage I have been
pursued by informers. It was by his Majesty’s command I married. Now he
desires to seduce my wife--that is the truth. If I appear ungrateful,
there is my reason.”
“His Majesty assures me, Prince,” breaks in Sully, “that his sentiments
towards your illustrious consort are those of a father.”
“A father! Why, then, does he come disguised to Chantilly? He has been
seen hiding in the woods there and at Muret. A pretty father, indeed! By
the grace of God, I will submit to the tyranny of no such a father. It
is a thraldom unbecoming my birth, my position, and my honour! While the
King acts thus I will not come to Court, to be an object of pity and
contempt!”
“You speak of tyranny, Prince, towards yourself. It may be well for your
highness to consider, however, that the King, my master, has to a
certain extent justified your accusation.” Condé looks up at him
keenly. “But it is tyranny exercised in your favour, Monsieur le Prince,
not to your prejudice.”
Sully’s eyes are bent upon the Prince. While he speaks a half smile
flitters about his mouth.
“I do not understand you, Duke. Explain yourself,” replies Condé, with
real or affected ignorance; but something in the expression of Sully’s
face caused him to drop the tone of bravado he had hitherto assumed.
“His Majesty, Prince, has justified your accusation of tyranny by having
hitherto insisted, nay even compelled, those about him to acknowledge
you--well--_for what you are not_!”
Condé almost bounds from his seat. There was a horrible suspicion that
his mother had shortened his father’s life, and this suspicion had cast
doubts upon his legitimacy.
Sully sits back in his chair and contemplates Condé at his ease.
“Your highness will, I think, do well for the future to consider how
much you owe to his Majesty’s bounty in many ways.” And these last words
are strongly emphasised. Condé is silent. “Again, I say, as your
highness is fortunately accepted as a Prince of the blood, you must bear
the penalties of this high position.”
Condé, who has turned ashy pale, rises with difficulty--he even holds
the table for support.
“Have you more to say to me, Duc de Sully, or is our interview ended?”
He speaks in a suppressed voice, and looks careworn and haggard.
“Monseigneur, I have now only to thank you for the honour you have done
me in coming here,” replies Sully, rising, a malicious smile upon his
face. “I commend to your consideration the remarks I have had the honour
to make to you. Believe me, you owe everything to the King, my master.”